Drag Me Down
by EchoResonance
Summary: Enough is enough. Sometimes goodbye is the only answer, no matter how much it hurts. {(Rated T for language)}
1. Blood Will Out

Every time. Every time, no matter what. Dean always forgave Castiel. No matter how badly the angel had screwed up, no matter how thoroughly he had fucked up Heaven or how many of his own brothers he had killed, Dean Winchester was always ready to forgive, because that's just how he was. However much of a hardass he tried to be, he couldn't shove his conscience far enough down for that to become who he truly was. He was a good and kind man with a forgiving heart. He would be angry at Castiel for a while-of course he would, it was human nature-but he would let it go reluctantly and give Castiel a tight but slightly uncomfortable hug, due to Dean's shoulder ending up pressed into the angel's neck. Dean always forgave Castiel.

So why did he feel so uneasy, pacing the hallway outside of the Hunter's room?

The walls were warded against demons-they had been for a long while before the boys found it-but the boys had added precautions against angels as well, so Castiel couldn't enter without permission and couldn't hear what was going on inside.

He'd screwed up. He'd really, seriously screwed up this time. He couldn't even really remember what had happened, but he knew that it was his fault. There had been a demon. A demon and a pack of Hellhounds. Some kind of warehouse. What else… Ugh, it was such a blur to him now!

The irksome light at the end of the hall was flickering, making him unable to focus, and outside a storm raged incessantly, great claps of thunder rolling across the sky and shaking the ground. The humming of electricity in the boys' bunker sounded like that of a hornets' nest, and it made Castiel feel on edge, trapped in a confined space with such a droning energy.

With a crash to rival the thunderclaps outside, the door to Dean's room was flung open, and standing in the doorway was a man so full of wrath that he reminded Castiel why that had been named one of the seven deadly sins. Tall enough to look down on the angel, hair still dripping wet and spiked in every direction, jaw set like a rottweiler preparing to lunge, Dean Winchester loomed over Castiel, and though he had little chance of actually harming him, the angel found himself cringing back guiltily, like a human child who had tracked mud on his mother's antique rug. Those green eyes blazed with dark fire, gleaming with a righteous fury. He bore the anger of the lost and it emanated from him in hot, bitter waves. His large hands were balled into fists at his sides, straining so tightly that his knuckles were ghostly white, and his whole body seemed to be quivering with the effort of refraining from attacking Castiel right there and then, his odds be damned.

"I thought-" Cas said weakly. "I thought I-"

"Thought you were doin' the right thing?" Dean growled in his low, husky bass. "Yeah, I've heard that before. You always think you're doin' the right thing, and every time you're more wrong than the last."

"Dean, if I had known-"

"You _did_ know!" the Hunter snarled. "You _did_ know, and you still let him go! You told him-That was low, even for you!"

"Jess was-"

"Jess is _dead_," Dean snapped, and his voice cracked under the stress. He felt Sam's pain for Jess like it was his own. "Jess is dead, Cas, and you went and-"

His throat convulsed, and he couldn't bring himself to continue. Dean slammed his door shut, and it closed with a _bang_ like a gunshot, but it didn't really matter. No amount of noise would be waking Sam up any time soon. The eldest Winchester stalked up the hallway, his shoulder slamming into Castiel's and causing him to stumble back against the wall on his way by. There was no need for him to look back, because there was no question that Castiel would follow into the main room, seeking to fix what had happened or at least to gain forgiveness like he always did.

Fingers trembling like a human's, Castiel hesitantly followed his friend down the hall, casting another look at the door behind which Sam was laying. When he cautiously emerged into the vast kitchen space, Dean had his back to him, leaning the heels of his hands against the cold stone countertop. His shoulders were tight, his damp shirt clinging to his taut muscles. He didn't so much as twitch when Castiel's footsteps squeaked on the linoleum, though there was no way he could have missed the shrill noise. No, he continued to drip water into an ever-growing puddle at his feet and on the counter in absolute silence. Castiel didn't like it.

"Dean…" he said, though what would follow he had no clue. "Dean, he'll be alright."

Dean snorted humorlessly, but didn't turn around. Castiel saw his hands tighten and the fingers curl into fists again.

"Excuse me for not takin' your word for it," he said coldly.

"Your brother is strong," Castiel reassured him. "He has survived worse."

Dean's shoulder twitched.

"Yeah, that's true," Dean acknowledged, but his tone didn't warm up. If anything, it grew even icier. "He survived bein' in Hell. And he survived bein' pulled out of Hell without his soul."

Castiel flinched.

"He survived havin' his soul shoved back into him."

Dean's hands flexed.

"He survived havin' a wall put up in his mind to block out Hell."

Castiel took a step back, finding himself unable to swallow past a massive lump in his throat.

"He survived havin' that wall taken down."

Dean took a deep breath, then slowly turned to face the angel. His face was empty.

"Sammy made it through a lot of bullshit. You know what the problem with all that is, though?"

Castiel opened his mouth, but no noise came out. His shoulders were biting painfully into the wall that he had backed himself against, and though logically he knew it was pathetic and ridiculous for him to be cowering from a mere human, he couldn't quite grasp a hold of that logic. He was too afraid, but of what, exactly?

"Nothin'?" Dean checked, advancing. "No guesses, Cas?"

Castiel remained silent, and Dean raised an accusing finger.

"You," he said, his voice impossibly low. "You're the problem. Sam accepted Lucifer because you told him it was the best pulled him out without his soul. You shoved his soul back into him after it had been torn to shreds by Lucifer and Michael in that cage. You put that wall up in his mind so he wouldn't remember, and then tore it back down. Sam's also doin' the trials now instead of me, because you weren't there when he asked. It's killin' him, man. You're killin' my little brother, and I'm done."

"Dean, what I did-" Castiel said hoarsely, trying to find something he could say that would excuse what he'd done.

"What you did was mess with my little brother," Dean snarled, jabbing him in the chest. He glared down at Castiel, and for a moment Castiel saw the power of Michael inside him, the potential to host a wrathful archangel. His green eyes blazed with that much passion and that much fury. "I've killed people for a whole lot less, Cas."

Castiel stared at Dean, his mouth hanging open stupidly.

"You won't kill me, Dean," was all he could think to say.

Dean continued to scowl down at him, then took an abrupt step back. Castiel thought he was going to turn away, and he started to relax, but before he could blink, a blunt force collided painfully with his jaw. His head slammed back against the brick wall, the taste of iron filling his mouth and stars popping in front of his eyes. He raised a confused hand to his jaw, unsure what had just happened and finding it difficult to bring the room into focus. Another sudden blow to his face knocked his head back into the wall again. A sickening crunch and a burning, fiery pain in his nose preceded a warm gush of liquid that caught on his lips, providing more of that disgusting, metallic taste. Castiel stumbled sideways, raising his hand to his nostrils even though the flow had already stopped. His eyes watered as the bones in his nose straightened out, healing themselves in a hot pain almost as bad as when they had broken. He looked around, blinking the spots of blackness away, and came face-to-fist with Dean just before yet another blow caught his cheek. Castiel stumbled again and fell against the counter, grasping the edge to hold himself steady.

"I put up with so much crap for you," Dean snarled, grasping Castiel by the front of his shirt and lifting him onto his toes. "You do whatever you want and I deal with it. Do you know why that it, Cas?"

"Because," said Castiel roughly, his fingers wrapping around Dean's wrists, "you are my friend."

"Yeah. But friends appreciate each other," Dean said, and he shook Castiel like a rag doll. "Friends don't do what you do. Friends protect each other."

"I protect you," Castiel protested automatically.

"Oh yeah?" Dean laughed coldly. "Sam nearly died because of your _protection_, Cas."

"I didn't-"

"Shut up!" Dean roared, and flung Castiel aside. The angel just managed to land on his feet, and he watched as Dean strode away, raking a hand through his spiked hair. "Just shut up, Cas. Nothin' you have to say means anything anymore!"

"Dean-"

"I told you to protect Sammy!" Dean said, voice cracking as he whipped around to glare with bright, shining eyes. "I told you to keep him safe, Cas!"

"I didn't-there wasn't-" Castiel tried weakly.

"I'm done trusting you with my brother, Castiel," he said, his voice as soft as a whisper. "I put up with all your mistakes, but this is the line. Nobody fucks with my brother. Nobody, Cas."

Castiel stared at Dean, dumbfounded. The hunter's eyes shone with tears that he would never shed, but his jaw was set. He'd made up his mind.

"Get out."

Castiel blinked.

"What?"

"Get out, Cas."

The room was silent but for the humming of the electricity overhead and through the walls. Dean was positively trembling with emotion, but Castiel had gone impossibly still, as though he had become a statue. Their gazes were locked in a silent battle of will, and whoever looked away first would lose. Castiel knew that, and he couldn't let Dean do this, but neither could he continue to look into Dean's face and see such horrible pain, pain that he had caused. Castiel bowed his head.

"I understand," he said softly. "Goodbye, Dean."

Dean said nothing.

"I'm sorry."

There was a current of air that came from nowhere, and Dean was left alone with his emotions. The moment Castiel was gone, all of Dean's fight went out of him, and his legs buckled under his weight. His knees crashed to the floor, he sank his head into his hands, and his folded shoulders began to shake.

**_R&R_**


	2. The Troubled Heart

Sam didn't wake up that night. Nor did he wake up the next day. He was breathing, but it was unsteady and shallow. His heart was beating, but it was irregular and weak. His skin was pale as ash, his eyes sunken into his skull. The gashes in his chest were deep, and despite the fresh bandaging that Dean had just applied, there was already a dull red stain spreading across them. Dean had scarcely left his brother's side but for a bathroom break or to get fresh materials to bind him, and he wasn't looking much better than the younger Winchester.

The fury he'd been consumed with had faded somewhat, though there was still no room in his heart for forgiveness. He knew Castiel was just waiting for Dean to call him back, the way he always did because he just couldn't stay angry with the angel. Well, he could wait forever-literally-because this was one thing that Dean could never, ever overlook. He'd give Castiel an inch, and Castiel would take a mile. Castiel would make a mess, and Dean would clean it up and forgive Castiel just like that. He forgave everything that Castiel did. But not this. With Sammy, there was no middle ground, no grey area like with all of those other instances. He'd stepped over that line several times, and Dean just couldn't ignore that fact any longer.

Dean fisted his eyes furiously, rubbing them until those psychedelic spots began to dance in his vision, and then he rubbed the back of his neck, sore from only sleeping for an hour here or there in the office chair in Sam's room. Sometimes he dozed off with his head on the bed and woke up with a God-awful crick in his neck.

A nearby grumble caused Dean to cease his actions in favor of whipping around. Sam's eyelashes fluttered weakly, and his lips parted in a pathetic groan.

"Sammy?" said Dean, his heart rate jumping exponentially. "Sammy, can you hear me?"

"Mmff…" the man mumbled.

"Sammy!" shouted Dean, shaking his brother's shoulder. Sam's eyelashes fluttered again, and his forehead creased.

"...loud…" he mumbled, and he cracked open one hazy eye.

"Thank God," Dean breathed. "You're awake."

Sam frowned and started to sit up, but cringed, air hissing through his grit teeth. "What the hell…?" He looked down and saw the blood-stained bandages wrapped around his chest. "Dean, what…"

"You've been out for days," said Dean, and his voice was rough from disuse. "I was starting to think I'd have to make a deal with a demon again."

Sam scowled. "That's not funny, Dean."

"It wasn't s'pposed to be," Dean replied bluntly.

The younger of the two sighed and leaned back on the bed. "What happened?"

"You don't remember?" Dean said hesitantly.

"I remember the Hellhounds…" said Sam. "And Cas...but after that…"

He shrugged, then looked over at his brother, who wore a troubled expression. He frowned, but before he could say anything, Dean cut him off.

"Well, now that you're awake, the worst is prob'ly over," he said, attempting a nonchalant attitude, but his relief was blatantly obvious. "There's a, uh, job for us, when you can get moving again. It's pretty far out, but there's no rush. Looks like it's another woman in white."

Sam groaned. "Fantastic. After a soulless year, those things can take me now."

Dean's lips twitched. "Join the club, bro."

"Hey, where's Castiel?" asked Sam, noticing the yawning absence of the angel. "Stuff to do upstairs?"

"Yeah...somethin' like that," Dean responded, but he looked away as he said it. Sam said nothing, but suspicion blossomed in his chest.

At that precise moment, Sam's stomach gave a vicious growl, and Dean laughed.

"You haven't eaten in almost a week," he acknowledged. "Want a sandwich?"

"Sure," said Sam, smiling a little himself. "And get me some water. My mouth feels like cotton."

"Sandwich and water comin' up," said Dean, and he retreated quickly from the room. Sam watched him leave, concern creasing his brow.

"What's up with him?" he wondered to the empty room.

Two more days passed after Sam woke up, and he was, if not in perfect shape, something resembling a functional human being. He could walk and eat and dress himself, at any rate. His movements were slow and ginger, but getting more comfortable, and he didn't lose all color if he moved too quickly anymore. Dean took all this as their cue to leave, before a certain angel got tired of waiting and came in uninvited.

He'd almost called for Castiel when Sam woke up. He had been caught up in the relief, too happy to remember that he couldn't trust the angel anymore, too excited to recall that it was _his_ fault that Sam had been out to begin with. The only reason he hadn't called Castiel was an abrupt awakening; the overturned stool that he'd knocked the angel into that night, and the slight crack in the wall where he'd slammed the angel's head repeatedly. Just like that, the cold lead weight dropped back into his stomach, and he'd resigned himself to gloomily making that sandwich for Sam.

Then, when Sam had passed out the first day trying to get to the bathroom on his own, Dean had nearly slipped up again, but with conscious effort shoved the impulse down a deep, dark well. He didn't need Cas. He would never need Cas again. He didn't need someone that he couldn't trust; there were plenty of those people already, and it was bad enough that he and his brother had Crowley on speed dial. They didn't need a wayward angel with no idea where his loyalties truly lay.

Sam had noticed Dean's strange behavior, and the lengthening absence of Castiel did not go unnoticed either, but he never brought it up. He had his own problems, so whatever beef Dean had with Cas presently, it was up to them to figure it out. Still, he did try to talk to Dean about it once.

"Dean," he began, sitting at the table while his older brother moved around the kitchen making breakfast.

"Yeah?"

Sam hesitated, watching as Dean broke an egg with more force than was strictly necessary on the counter. He tossed the shell into the sink and picked up another one.

"Why don't you call Castiel?"

The short-haired man paused midway through cracking the egg. The yolk began to ooze out of the wounded shell slowly, dripping down the counter's edge.

"What for?" he said, trying to sound flippant but failing miserably. He glanced down and swore, noticing the drooling egg, and hurried dropped the rest of the contents into a bowl with the first one. That shell joined the other in the sink, and he grabbed a rag to clean up the mess.

"You seem worried," Sam said slowly. "About him, I mean. What happened with you two, anyway?"

Dean pressed his lips together, but his back was to Sam, and his brother didn't see his incriminating expression.

"Nothin'," said Dean gruffly without turning around. "He's just...busy."

"Right…" said Sam. "He can usually spare a couple of minutes if you call him, though."

"Don't worry about it, Sam," said the elder brother, in a tone that invited no more conversation on the topic.

"So...About this job," said Sam, recognizing the closed door. "We should probably get a move on, shouldn't we?"

Dean's shoulders loosened slightly in relief, but Sam's frown only deepened.

"If you're feelin' up to speed, we can leave tonight," said Dean.

"You're in a hurry to get out of here," his little brother noticed.

"Just wanna get out for a while," said the other, his hands resting on the counter despite the bowl of eggs sitting nearby that still needed to be cooked. "This place gets stuffy."

"Yeah, I guess so," Sam allowed, and they lapsed back into silence.

Dean looked around and gave a small jump, seeing the eggs and remembering suddenly that he was supposed to be making breakfast. He took a fork and began to beat the eggs, perhaps with more force than was strictly necessary, but he didn't make a mess, so his brother didn't comment on it. Sam leaned back against his chair, watching Dean cook and analyzing him. What was really going on? Busy or not, Castiel would normally have popped in the bunker at least once by now, and it wasn't like Dean to not call the angel when he was worried. What had happened, really?

Knowing that Dean was not going to entertain any more questions on the matter, Sam rose from the table and stretched, wincing as the movement tugged at his stitches.

"I'm gonna go clean up a little while you finish up," said Sam, heading to the bathroom.

"Those are the stitches that dissolve in water," Dean reminded him. "You'll have to wipe down the old-fashioned way."

"These aren't the first ones I've had, Dean," Sam reminded his brother with an amused sigh. He vanished into the hall, and Dean let his easy front fall.

They needed to get out of there as soon as possible. Dean knew that Castiel would be getting tired of waiting for him to call, and he'd come in uninvited. He glanced back at the spot where Sam had vanished into the hall on his way to the bathroom.

Well, they would just have to be gone before Cas came back.


	3. Wait Out The Storm

Castiel was doing as Dean asked, but it was not easy. He didn't like staying away, only watching from a distance and trying to pick up any trace of conversation within the bunker. However, Dean had told him to go, and he did not wish to upset the man further. The angel understood that he had made a grievous mistake and that his friend was quite justified in his fury, but that did not mean he felt some slight resentment at being cast out by the same man that he had been ready to Fall from Heaven for. He was hurt and sad and more than a little scared. What if something happened to the Winchesters while he was away? How long would it take for Dean to break down and call Castiel back? _Would_ he call Castiel back? Castiel knew that, however much Dean relied on him, the man was certainly tenacious enough to hold onto the angel's restraining order of sorts for a very long time in spite of the many times the Hunter knew that he could be of use.

"What are you pouting for now?" said a gruff, accented voice at Castiel's shoulder.

"Balthazar," Cas greeted without facing the newcomer.

"Don't tell me you're still hanging around those Winchesters?" the taller angel said, look out to where the entrance.

"I'm not," the dark-haired figure said at once. Balthazar raised a straw-colored brow.

"What, did they kick you out?" he mocked. Castiel said nothing, and the other man let out a bark of a laugh. "I told you," he chortled. "They'd only keep you around as long as you were useful."

"You don't know what you're talking about," Castiel argued, a tick starting beneath his eye.

"Don't I?" his companion challenged. "Then why are you out here instead of playing touch-and-go with your human pets?"

"I made a mistake, Balthazar," said the first angel roughly. "Now I must pay the consequences."

"Your _mistake_," Balthazar replied, "was in joining up with on little bandwagon of wannabe-heroes in the first place. You're so in love with humanity that you can't see how pointless trying to help it is."

"I believe in the humans, Balthazar," said Castiel firmly. "They are strong."

Balthazar snorted. "They kill each other over _us_, Castiel. They kill each other over _less_. However hard you try, you can't protect such a stupid race from _themselves_. They're nothing but simple-minded killers built in our image."

"Are we any better, Balthazar?" Castiel challenged, rounding on the angel and facing him at last. "Are we? Our brothers are killing each other. I was part of the war we waged in Heaven, I know what happened."

"But we aren't _humans_," Balthazar argued. "We're held to different standards than they are-"

"In what way?" Castiel asked. "If we can't even rise above the actions of 'lowly' humans, what right have we to claim superiority? How are we any better than them?"

Balthazar cast his brother a long, searching look, and whatever he found in his bright blue eyes caused him to shake his head and look back at the sky, sliding his hands into the pockets of the worn jacket hanging from his slender shoulders.

"You've clearly already made up your mind," the taller angel said with a groan. "Nothing I say is going to make any difference to you, is it?"

"Until you actually have something to say, no," Castiel confirmed. "You're just speaking for the sake of speaking tonight."

Balthazar shook his head and, in the next moment, he was gone and Castiel was left alone once again beneath a large oak tree, gazing unblinking at the bunker. The warding he had helped the brothers apply cut it completely out of his senses-he could not hear it or feel it or even see it, though it didn't actually bar an angel from entering. He just knew it was there, the way he knew that the brothers were inside. Dean was likely pacing around in his room at that very moment while his younger brother slowly became mobile again, the former worrying incessantly about the latter. They hadn't left the bunker since the night he'd been sent away, but he was sure that they would have a job to work soon enough. If they did not call him to reconcile before they left, he would know that it wasn't likely that Dean would forgive him. His stomach churned just thinking about such a thing.

Castiel gazed at the bunker, but he could not see inside. He could not see Dean pacing just as he had predicted, nor could he see Sam moving gingerly around his room, also as he had expected. He could not see Dean look around anxiously as though feeling a pair of eyes watching him, or Sam pause in his actions and frown as goosebumps erupted down his arms and neck. He didn't see the brothers find each other in the hall or hear them speak in hushed tones about this strange presence they felt, nor did he see them move to the kitchen and take a knife from a drawer. Castiel didn't see the banishment circle they drew in Dean's blood on the table, but he did feel its power even from this distance when it was activated, sending him flying backwards in crushing darkness. His back slammed into a solid wall of something, something that burned his skin like Holy Fire where it touched and elicited a lancing agony through his entire body. Then he was engulfed by blindingly white light.

Dean looked around, forcing himself to relax.

"Definitely an angel, then," Sam said, mirroring his brother. "The seal sent him packing. Who do you think it was?"

"Eh," Dean said with a dismissive shrug. His palms were sweating slightly. "Probably that tool Balthazar. He's friends with Castiel, so he probably knows all about it."

"No way," Sam denied immediately. "Castiel would never tell anyone about the bunker."

"You think?" Dean wondered, running a tired hand over his hair. "Well, whoever it was, they're gone now."

He started to walk back toward his room, but Sam clapped a hand over his shoulder and held him where he was, frowning at the back of his brother's head. Dean turned to glower at Sam in confusion, but the younger just held him.

"Seriously man, what's going on with you?" he demanded. "Normally you would never say something like that about Cas. Where is he, Dean? Where is he really?"

Dean scowled and jerked his shoulder free of his brother's fragile grip, taking full advantage of the fact that Sam had not yet recovered to put plenty of distance between the two of them. His green gaze watched his brother's hazel one warily, and his shoulders had gone tense. Sam's frown deepened.

"I don't know what you're talkin' about, Sam," said Dean bluntly. "I told you, he's got stuff to do upstairs. He's busy."

"You and I both know that's a lie," Sam said, his voice escalating angrily. "Cas lives up your ass, Dean! And on top of that, you never call him by his full name. What the hell is going on with you two? Where is he, and what did you do?"

Dean scowled.

"Look, Sammy," he started.

"No, _you_ look, Dean," Sam interrupted. "We can't afford to lose the few friends we still have. Whatever you and Castiel are in the middle of, you need to get over it. We _need_ him, Dean. You know that's true."

"The hell it is!" Dean snapped, his resolve blistering. "We don't need him, Sam, we _don't_. We kept him around 'cause he was handy, but we can do just fine without him, too."

"We'd both be dead if it wasn't for him," Sam said incredulously. "How do we not need him?"

"You almost _were_ dead _because_ of him!" Dean shouted, and he broke completely. "How many times have you nearly died because _he_ fucked up?! I can't watch that happen anymore, Sammy, I can't trust him to protect you because he hasn't _done it_!"

Sam stared at his brother, whose shoulders were heaving from his outburst. Seconds passed, and turned into minutes, which felt like hours or days or even years, and in all that time, neither brother said a word. The tension in the air was palpable, humming like the electricity in the walls. Finally, Sam's lips parted.

"Are you an _idiot_?"

Dean glared at him.

"What's that supposed to mean?" he demanded.

Sam ran a hand over his mane of shaggy chestnut hair.

"We've almost died because of plenty of people," he said wearily. "We nearly die because of each other, we nearly die because of Bobby. Garth, Kevin, Jo, Ellen, we've nearly died a bunch because of them, too. You've never run out on them! What the hell did-"

"They didn't almost kill us themselves!" Dean snarled. "All those things he did to you, Sam; he did those on his own! You weren't dyin' because you were protectin' him! You were dyin' because _he_ fucked you up! That's completely different!"

"But I'm fine, Dean," Sam said fiercely, raising his arms and turning in a circle. He saved his wince until his back was to his brother. "See? It's nothing we haven't had before. And besides, what does any of that have to do with me getting gutted by some hellhound the other night?"

Dean stiffened, recalling that Sam didn't remember most of what had transpired that night. Should he tell his little brother? Telling him might get him on Dean's side, but… What had happened truly was low, even for what they'd witnessed an angel capable of.

"He-he let you get hurt again," Dean said lamely. "This was the last straw, Sammy. I couldn't do it anymore."

"You're crazy!" Sam exploded. "Call Cas."

"No."

Sam advanced on his brother.

"Call him."

"Why don't you?"

"Because you sent him away. He won't come unless _you_ call."

"Then I guess he's not comin', huh?"

Sam scowled at his brother and drew his fist back to knock some sense into him, but his movements were still slower and clumsier than his ambitions could accommodate, and Dean caught his attempt at a right hook without a problem, stepping in until they were almost nose-to-nose. Well, nose-to-chin, really, but the point was made.

"I'm not callin' that bastard as long as there are stars in the sky," Dean growled. "One of these days he's really gonna get you killed. I won't let that happen."

"Some things are more important than us, Dean," Sam sighed.

"I'm not talkin' 'bout this anymore," said Dean dangerously. "I made up my mind, and he's gone for good. We're takin' that job once you can throw a decent hit."

He dropped Sam's wrist and turned on his heel, striding out of the room. Sam stood rooted to the spot, watching his older brother turn into the hallway and leave his sight. The sound of his bedroom door slamming echoed loudly.

Sam shook his head and made for his own room. Castiel wouldn't wait for very long. If Dean didn't call the angel soon, he'd show up in the bunker anyway to take matters into his own hands, and his brother would have a tough time sending Cas off a second time.

**_R&R of course. I'm going to try to post at least once a week, generally on a Sunday or Monday. Putting it on a schedule helps me get everything done efficiently. I apologize if this in any way inconveniences you_**


	4. Alone In The Darkness

Things didn't improve for the Winchesters from there. Sam was steadily regaining his strength, but was pushing his brother with everything at his disposal to give in and call the angel back so that they could settle things in something resembling an adult-like manner, and Dean was of course digging in his heels and refusing to do any such thing. His pride would be the death of him one day. The ancient Greeks didn't call _hubris_-deadly pride-a fatal flaw for nothing. Still, there wasn't much he could do once his brother had made up his mind.

A week passed since Sam woke up, and the brothers got a call saying that the Woman in White had been taken care of and that they were no longer needed. The younger Winchester was relieved, seeing this as an opportunity, but Dean was not so glad, recognizing it as Sam had; a longer period of time in which for him to wait and possibly break down. If he just had something to do, anything to take his mind off of that nasty pit in his stomach that seemed to grow larger with each passing day that he left that angel hotline unused, he would be alright, but sitting around stagnant gave him little else to do but think about it.

"There's a Wendigo in the next state over," Dean told Sam, looking up from his laptop as his brother shuffled into the main living space with his hair in a disastrous mockery of a lion's mane. Other than his chaotic hair, Sam was looking marginally better. His skin was no longer paper white, his lips had some color, and his eyes no longer looked sunken into his head. His movements were still ginger at times, and if Dean hit him wrong, he'd cringe and go pale again, but all in all he was in pretty good shape. Dean was glad.

"So?" his brother wondered, sounding like he was trying to talk through cotton.

"So, why don't we head over, gank it, and be back before dinner?" Dean said, tone snappish.

Sam cast him a dour look. "Dean, do I look like I can take on a Wendigo right now?" he wondered, holding his arms out to better expose his bare chest. His wound was healing, but it still looked angry, the skin puckering scarlet where it had begun to scar. "I probably couldn't take out Garth like this, man."

"Hey now, that's sellin' yourself short," Dean tried for a joke. Sam didn't crack a grin, and he turned to glower at his computer screen again.

"Dean, you're just looking for some kind of distraction," Sam reprimanded, flopping down in the chair across the table from him. "But you're not gonna get any. Just call the damn angel and be done with the whole thing, alright? You obviously haven't made peace with it, and you know _he_ hasn't, so quit being stubborn and just apologize."

Dean scowled at the laptop.

"I ain't apologizing," he snapped. "I didn't do anythin' wrong. He's the one that needs to shape up."

"He can't do that if you don't give him the chance," Sam reasoned, pushing his hair out of his face with his hands.

"He's had plenty of chances, Sam," the older brother growled. "How many more are we s'posed to give him? Just because he doesn't get it-"

"Enough, Dean," Sam sighed. "At least call him and talk to him. You don't have to apologize-Hell, _you_ don't say anything, it might go better that way-but at least hear him out. This isn't good for either of you."

Dean snorted and said nothing, shutting his laptop a little too hard and rising to his feet. Sam watched him wearily as he stalked out of the room, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his heavy jeans. His boots hit the linoleum floor and echoed loudly through the halls as he strode to his room, the first room that he'd had to himself in a very long time. The younger man knew that if he followed Dean at the moment nothing would change for the better and he would likely only rile up the older man even more, and the angrier he got, the more stubborn he became. The best he could hope for was that stewing on his own might drive Dean crazy enough that calling Cas seemed like the only thing he could do.

After all, the eldest Winchester was known to go stir-crazy if he sat still anywhere for too long, and Sam's condition gave him little other option. Ordinarily he might go off on his own for a little while to blow off some steam, but he was so on edge about his little brother's safety presently that it was a wonder he even let Sam go to the restroom alone, never mind leave him in the bunker without someone to look after for him. So Sam planned on milking his state for all that it was worth, although in reality the injury wasn't even bothering him that much anymore: the flinching and the shuffling was a practiced act. It wouldn't be the first time that Dean had broken down from something as simple and boring as waiting, and if he wouldn't listen to reason, all Sam could do was wait him out.

Unfortunately, Dean was vastly underestimated by his brother, and the days continued to crawl by until Sam was forced to either acknowledge that he had recovered or tell his elder brother that he'd been faking it. The wendigo had been taken care of, but there were hundreds of monsters still out on the prowl, and they weren't waiting for an available hunter to come and take them out. Sam tried one last time to convince Dean to call Castiel, but it was no surprise when he refused.

Sam reluctantly climbed into the passenger seat of the Impala in silence, his brother doing likewise and slamming his door uncharacteristically hard. He revved the engine, and they blasted out of the concealed garage, barely pausing to make sure that it closed without admitting any unwanted company before peeling out onto the street, leaving a cloud of dust in their wake.

They'd left the lights on. Dean hadn't paid any attention to them, but Sam made careful note of each light that was left flickering, and he intended to make note of each and every one still flickering when they returned. If anyone got into the bunker while the two of them were away, they would be someone who would understand the significance of those lights and would change at least one of them to leave a subtle message. To say that they had come, and they understood, and they weren't ready to give up just yet.

Dean drove for a long time, and it was well into the night when at last he began to slow down to a safe speed, entering Battle Creek, Michigan and turning on his lights and squinting at the street signs as he passed them. Sam was asleep in the seat next to him, his mouth hanging open comically and his wild hair sticking to the leather seat in strange spots. They didn't have a job in that town, so Dean didn't bother waking his little brother up, but he did feel that he had some...personal business there.

He swore suddenly and made a sharp U-turn, cutting into someone's lawn in the process when he realized that he'd passed the street he was looking for. As he turned onto Weinbach Avenue, he began to check the house numbers, though he already knew which house he was looking for without needing to know the address. There it was: 213, Weinbach Avenue.

The Impala growled to a stop at the curb across the street, engine purring like a wildcat and threatening to wake everyone on the block. He carefully opened his door, careful not to rouse Sam, and stepped out onto the asphalt. Dean didn't go anywhere once he was outside of the car. He simply stood there, looking at 213 as though it held all of life's greatest mysteries, his dark green gaze on the open living room window. As he watched, a slender young woman with long, thick dark hair moved inside, crossing behind the glass and wearing a wide, white smile. A young boy followed at her heels, trying to skip around her to see her expression. In the next instant they were out of sight again, and the light in the room clicked off, leaving Dean alone on the street with only the street lamps and his snoring younger brother for company. What he wouldn't do to be able to live like that, in that house with those two people, smiling and laughing and joking around.

But he couldn't. He had his little brother to look after, and he had to keep those two well away from him, where they were safest. Nothing good came of a relationship with a Winchester, and he understood this perfectly well. All Dean could do was stand outside when no one was watching and think wistfully of any other life he could have had, any chance he might have had at building his own family. All he could do was look in from the outside, a stranger despite everything.

Castiel and those demons had used that same desire against Sam that night. His little brother wanted nothing more than to have a normal life, to have his old friends and his girlfriend/would-be-fiance back, and everybody knew it. So when one of the creatures spoke and threatened to kill his precious Jess, of course Sam had been thunderstruck. Jess was already dead. He knew logically that she was. But he also knew that things that were dead didn't always stay dead, and as afraid as he was of Jess being brought back, he was even more afraid of her being killed again because of him. So he'd rushed out without a thought in his head, and that damned angel just...let him.

Dean took a long, shaky breath, but his determination was firm. Enough was enough. He would protect his brother like he always had, and that left no room to protect anybody else. Still, he couldn't bring himself to look away just yet from the life he had almost been granted. Not yet. Not yet.

They'd left the lights on. Only a few, scattered throughout the bunker in no apparent order. One here in a bedroom and one there in a bathroom, in the kitchen and in the library. They cast shadows across the floor, shadows of stools and books and lamps unlit. In the kitchen, one shadow stood out from the rest, a strange shape amidst the jumble of mismatched furniture. The shadow moved slightly, and its owner looked around, his blue eyes dark and stormy.

They had gone. They had gone without calling him.

Castiel moved to the hallway, to the next flickering light, and found himself standing in Dean's doorway, looking in to the neat but distinctly _Dean_ room, taking note of the guns and swords displayed on the wall and the few books scattered across a desk. His legs moved without conscious demand and he found himself standing at the side of Dean's bed, made up crisp enough to make a military man proud. He had a moment's hesitation before sitting down on the edge, but he did so anyway, leaning his elbows on his knees and holding his head in his hands.

They had gone without him.

He had been a fool to cling to the Winchesters as he had, and to Dean especially. He had dragged them down, making them fight in his war and turning their battles into his opportunities. They had trusted him so blindly, and he understood now that he had taken their faith for granted once he had it, despite all it had taken for him to earn it in the first place. He dragged them down to his level, where once upon a time he might have thought the opposite.

He looked up sadly at the light bulb glowing overhead. It flickered, and went out, leaving him alone in the darkness.


End file.
